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THE THRESHOLD
by James Ambuehl
"Fuckin' posers!" growled Odd Dog from between gritted teeth. Onstage
in the tiny, packed club the Sex Toys were running through a string of
hits from their classic debut album, BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED!:
"X marks the spot
For sex, Baby, don't stop;
X marks the spot
Pretty Mama, gimme all you got!"
"Get orf the stage yer dollies! Ya bleedin' wankers are fuckin' naff!"
Odd Dog hooted derisively.
Odd Dog's real name was August Barker or Woofer or something, so people
just called him Augie Dog, or Odd Dog as the name had mutated and stuck.
He had been born in England, in a town called Temphill in the Severn
Valley, but his family had moved to America when he was but a lad.
Nevertheless, Odd Dog deliberately retained the accent and the grammar.
Odd Dog was a proud mother. He wore his colors with pride: 3-inch pink
mohawk, tapering into a 3-foot ponytail, wraparound pink one-eye visor,
leather jacket, torn jeans, BLATANT SATANISTS T-shirt, hobnail boots,
and, of course, his own humorous touch considering his moniker, a spiked
dog collar. Odd Dog was a punk, and just now he was pissed!
He moved toward the stage, shoving his 6'3 muscular frame through a sea
of teased hair, air guitars and pumping fists. The scent of hairspray
and cosmetics nearly gagged him.
"Wotta bunch o' fuckin' posers!" he roared again, elbowing a few
metalheads aside none too gently. One kid in particular, who looked
somewhat like a long-haired Brian Bosworth looked slightly annoyed and
began sizing ole Odd Dog up, but one withering stare from the punk sent
the other packing.
Odd Dog was close enough to the stage now to get a good look at the
band, and what he saw sickened him. THIS WAS HELL! thought Odd Dog,
TRAPPED INSIDE A POSER GIG WITH AMERICA'S #1 POSER BAND! Just now the
band was between songs, and the singer was doing his lameass
stage-banter, one of those patented ALL RIGHT! YOU WANNA ROCK 'N' ROLL
spiels. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK, WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR CLUE?
Odd Dog hawked up a gob and was about to let fly at the band, but he
checked himself. That privelege was reserved for the real bands! Bands
like The Morons, Hard Korpse, Pitstomp, Rat'sass, and that band he saw
last New Year's Eve, The Loving Dead. THOSE were bands. They didn't
slow down for no one, and didn't try to look prettier than the girls
they dated. They didn't care to strut around in spandex and hairspray
(though The Loving Dead DID use make-up, but to ghoulish effect!). They
didn't give a rat's ass about melody or hit singles -- they just did
whatever the fuck they wanted to, and if anybody got in their way . . .
god or the devil or Johnny Rotten help 'em. They fucking raged!
Sickened near to nausea, Odd Dog spun on his hobnails and shoved his way
forcefully through the crowd again to the glowing EXIT sign. Swinging
his size 13 1/2 up he kicked the door open and stomped out into the cool
night air. He was halfway down the block when he heard them.
"Lookit the pretty little faggot. Dressed in pink and goin' to the
prom, I'll bet."
Odd Dog turned slowly. It was Bosworth again, and this time he'd
brought the clones of Steven Seagal and Bo Jackson with him.
"Yeah, what'sa matter, Cinderella?" cat-called Bo. "Gotta get home
'fore ya turn into a pumpkin?"
"Nah," began Seagal. "He's goin' home to his boyf -- hey!"
He was on them in a flash. Seagal took a forearm smash to the nose,
Bosworth got a hobnail in the jewels -- then they were all over him like
flies on shit.
Suddenly, amidst the pounding and kicking he seemed to leave his body
for an instant, then found himself inexplicably drawn to a nearby
lightpost. There was a handbill tacked to it:
"IA YOG-SOTHOTH!
YOG-SOTHOTH IS THE KEY AND THE GATE, WHEREBY THE SPHERES MEET;
PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE -- ALL ARE ONE IN YOG-SOTHOTH!
YOG-SOTHOTH IS THE ALL-IN-ONE AND THE ONE-IN-ALL!
YOG-SOTHOTH IS AT THE THRESHOLD!
COME TO THE THRESHOLD! COME TO THE THRESHOLD!"
The bottom of the flyer contained booking info. There was an address
for the club given beneath. Then Odd Dog was back in his body, spitting
up blood from crushed lips. Then all went black.
* * *
The first thing Odd Dog should have done when he came to was go to the
hospital. But instead he got slowly to his feet and staggered over to
the lightpost. The handbill was gone now, if it had ever existed at
all. Still, the punk felt this burning need to find out if it did, the
urge to go to The Threshold and see the band called -- strangely enough
-- Yog-Sothoth.
He walked the few blocks to the address he remembered being on the
flyer. His eyes were met with a large black building, lightless and
windowless. It appeared vacant. Still, a blazing neon sign hung
overhead, proclaiming it THE THRESHOLD. He listened at the door, but
heard nothing through its thickness. e considered forgetting it all and
going home, or maybe to the hospital, but his numb fingers found the
massive door handle and pulled it open.
The club was filled near to capacity, and the band onstage sounded
great. Odd Dog entered, and was surprised to see no bouncer lurking
within. Nor was he expected to pay a cover charge. I MUST BE IN
FUCKING HEAVEN! thought the punk.
The band ripped through all the classics: Fear, Misfits, Minor Threat,
Sex Pistols, Black Flag. Odd Dog slurped up free beer and spit at the
band, got into a few good scraps, basically had a really good time.
When it was time for the band to leave, the punk really hated to see
them go.
The singer, a stocky Lee Ving clone yelled out in his broken glass
leather-lunged roar: "Thank you, ya no good lousy assholes! We been
Nightgaunt and we been proud to open for . . . Yog-Sothoth! But now the
stars are right, it's time to open the Gate whereby the spheres do meet
. . . the Threshold to YOG-SOTHOTH!"
The houselights went down and an eerie synthesizer passage wafted low
and ominous about the standing-room-only club. Odd Dog scowled. He
hated boring old-fart keyboard bands!
Then he froze. A wave of nausea hit him. He began to remember
something, dimly through a fog-brain haze . . . something he'd heard
about the local group who made good, Nightgaunt . . . something about a
tour bus rolling over. And something about the Sex Toys too. About
how, on the first leg of the promotional tour for their secod album, I.
D. NOT REQUIRED (IDEA NOT REQUIRED, he liked to call it) -- when they .
. . well. let's just say that their cosmetics were HIGHLY FLAMMABLE!
The newsrags called it the "Max Factor Massacre." The whole place went
up in flames in minutes, and not a solitary soul got out -- not
audience, nor road crew, nor band!
Another wave of nausea buffetted him, and he found himself standing in a
queue. And he recalled his own DEATH. How he and Monster Mosh had been
bored stiff one night, so they borrowed some guns from Nazi Frank
downstairs and held up a liquor store. Monster had been caught by the
cops, but Odd Dog had bought it when he was hit full in the chest with
two pumps from that pig's sawed-off.
What the hell was he doing here? He knew he was standing at The
Threshold, he could see that Nirvana-guy waling through ahead of him,
blond hair caked with blood, wry, pained smile on his elfin face . . .
marching to the tune of something off BLEACH, perhaps "Negative Creep"
-- not that MONSTER his "Smells Like . . . Crap!"
The as the last fuzz-toned guitar-punch riffs faded out the music was
replaced by something else, a new tune . . . the Music of the Spheres:
"YOG-SOTHOTH IS THE ALL-IN-ONE AND ONE-IN-ALL! YOG-SOTHOTH IS THE KEY
AND THE GATE! IA YOG-SOTHOTH!"
Taking one last look back, Odd Dog threw up his chin and marched his
hobnails proudly through The Threshold, and into the arms of That Which
Waited Beyond.
